


As He Would

by Path



Category: The Goblin Emperor - Katherine Addison
Genre: M/M, Sexual Roleplay, Threesome - M/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-15
Updated: 2016-03-15
Packaged: 2018-05-26 20:08:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,958
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6254164
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Path/pseuds/Path
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Of all the things Csevet Aisava is prepared to be, his own lord Edrehasivar is not one of them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	As He Would

**Author's Note:**

> For the kink meme, Cala/Csevet/Beshelar, roleplaying one of them is Maia

“As you wish, Serenity,” Cala says. 

The lanky maza kneels before him, sinking his mouth gratefully over Csevet’s cock. Beshelar is to his side, hips inclined against him, mouth working down Csevet’s neck. Csevet places a hand to the soldier’s cheek. He wants his mouth on his, and nearly pulls him close without thinking, but reminds himself to catch the man’s gaze first. He lowers his eyes shyly, biting his lip, and can hear Beshelar’s breath draw in.

“Please,” the man says gruffly, a little awkwardly. “Serenity.” Csevet raises his eyes obediently, and now he can catch Beshelar’s mouth in his. The soldier groans, and Csevet can feel the man’s length swell where it presses into his hip. They desire him so- they desire their Emperor so. Csevet is merely content to take advantage of their adoration. He whimpers into Beshelar’s mouth, a small and pitiful sound, and he can feel both sets of hands tighten on him, as if they will sweep him into their protection and not let go.

= = =

He had been working diligently in the Tortoise Room well past the hour any man would be asleep. He was not tired- well, he was tired, but he did not require sleep yet- when the two had approached him. It was a singularly unique conversation in Csevet’s experience. The nohecharei were not courtiers, and Csevet could read them easily- Lieutenant Beshelar’s discomfort was transparently obvious, whereas Cala Athmaza was merely amused in his quiet way- but still it took a great deal of curious probing and gentle questions before Beshelar, who insisted on leading the conversation despite his awkwardness in it, could be convinced to say what he meant.

“One more time, if you would,” Csevet had said.

“I…” Beshelar had the look of a man dragging an apology out of himself. “That is to say. Having established you might be willing to indulge us in a…” He grit his teeth. “-Partnership. We merely wondered if you would do us the considerable favour- Cala and myself- of playing a certain. Role. For us.” His ears were flushed quite red and he was doing his best to keep them straight and still. “We thought you might have a skill at it that we… lack.”

“He means, you can act,” Cala chimed in, having patiently allowed Beshelar to finish his painfully long query. “Would you? We mean, we have something in mind. We hope you will not find it offensive.”

So here he finds himself, playacting for the Emperor’s First and their unsubtle propositioning. His heart did race a little, at first; of all the things Csevet is prepared to be, his own lord Edrehasivar is not one of them. He has dreamed of having him, obviously, _obviously_ , but mimicking him is something new and unexpected. It is tricky without being very difficult, which carries a certain pleasure, and it has the thrill of taboo to it.

Not to mention the pleasure of two men seeking his bed, which is something Csevet once had considerably more freedom in. He has not had a great deal of time, leisure, and lack of scrutiny since he became a secretary, and less still since he became the Emperor’s. So there is a comfort in knowing that these two will have no reason to carry this information beyond the Tortoise Room’s walls; they would be as universally shamed as Csevet would, should it all get out. They lock the doors and know few will roam the halls at this time of night, and they seat Csevet in the chair by the fire.

He can look across to where he had been working. He has rarely so much as stepped foot on this side of the room. Csevet thinks sharply, _As_ he _would, if you please_ , and adjusts his posture and bearing. His eyes he casts down in that self-conscious nervousness he knows so well. He holds his shoulders stiffly, clasping hands on his lap like a child being punished. He thinks of his leige’s bony knuckles, of how he must struggle not to hunch his back, of his thin frame held taut and his sweet mouth, pressed flat. He adores this man, surely, as young and inexperienced and court-green as he is. He is still so beautiful, so admirable, and so _good_ that Csevet, as always, finds himself lost for words.

He stirs himself from his brief reverie, feeling his ears quite hot with his thoughts, to find Beshelar staring at him. Cala murmurs to him, “Marvellous, did we not tell you?”

Csevet decides to keep up the role in the face of the nohecharei’s unprofessionalism. He raises his shoulders, lowers his ears, and affects a humble attitude. “We would not wish to ask this of you otherwise,” he says, careful and slow, and the nohecharei snap themselves into attention, “and I am- we mean, we are somewhat… unexperienced in the matter.” Csevet wishes he could blush on command, unsure if his earlier flush has lingered, but at least the nohecharei do.

Cala steps forward. “Whatever we might do for your Serenity. You need only say the word.”

“Please, then,” Csevet says, standing again. He averts his eyes to some awkward distance, focusing on his desk across the room as if it might save him. He has not had to consider what to say; he has dreamed of the Emperor quietly, stiltedly asking the same of him. “If you would teach me. If you would… touch me?”

The breath Cala lets out is almost a gasp, and he is at Csevet’s side in an instant. Csevet has to tilt his head considerably more than his Serenity would, to meet the tall maza’s eyes, but he puts all the pleading nervousness he can into the look. Cala is clearly swept up in the whole thing; he puts shaking thin fingers to Csevet’s cheekbones and sweeps them down, caressing his cheek and ear and leaving Csevet’s earrings chiming in his wake. Csevet lets his eyes roll up a little, losing himself in the soft, gentle gesture. Cala places his other hand at the back of Csevet’s neck, and the lanky man is nearly trembling himself. Beshelar has not moved from his place, for Csevet has not asked him to, but he looks on in slack-jawed desire, eyes clouded. _Gods_ , Csevet thinks, _they want him as surely as I do._

He catches the lieutenant’s eyes next- what a pleasure, to have two men so devoted to serving him! If Edrehasivar felt the slightest inclination, they would be eager to fulfill his every whim- and breathes a faint, “Will you-?” before Beshelar strides to him. He takes his place on Csevet’s other side, one strong hand at his back and the other caressing down his front, from his throat to his hip, and Csevet curls into it as if he has never felt so good. Beshelar’s ears are pink, lowered in the hunger of lust.

Cala is working his clever fingers through Csevet’s buttons and frogs, with the reverence he would have if they were truly things of silver thread and raw white silk, and not a serviceable and unobtrusive navy linen. He parts the jacket and tight shirt beneath with a studious concentration, as if he finds the simple task a difficult honour he must prove himself worthy of. Cala takes a shallow breath when he finally puts his hands to Csevet’s skin. His fingertips are surprisingly rough for a scholar, and Csevet can feel them sharply defined against his chest. He knows Cala is imagining charcoal skin, sharp ribs, and Csevet must imagine them too. He must be one step ahead of the nohecharei, imagining how his Emperor would react to their touch- to his touch, he thinks- he must predict his beautiful, fearful reactions. Would he have given up caution by now? Would he give himself over into their hands and lose himself in their appreciation, their adulation? Would he try to hide the sounds he made, soft and shamed like a wounded pet? 

He arches into Cala’s fingers, but ducks his head against Beshelar’s shoulder, keeping his eyes averted as if too self-conscious to watch what they do to him. Csevet has been hard practically since his surprise at the proposition faded; he usually has to _stop_ himself from examining His Serenity too closely. Now he realizes how thoroughly he has failed in this; he knows his Emperor’s every quirk and habit, his behaviour through to his posture, down to the way he rubs his thumb when he is nervous, spinning his rings in place. Csevet has tried to remain his distant servant, but Edrehasivar has trusted him beyond what is appropriate in every regard, and Csevet cannot suppress how he adores him for it. He has only tried not to indulge himself too greatly in his thoughts; he cannot allow stray and personal lust to influence their dealings in public. But now, throwing his entire mind into _being_ him, Csevet finds every scrap of detail his shrewd eyes have picked out and uses it. He wields his familiarity with Edrehasivar’s shyness, his sweetness of manner, his inexperience and clumsy gratitude, against his nohecharei like a weapon, and they are felled to it.

“Please,” he stammers into Beshelar’s shoulder. The man’s head is inclined into him, his mouth moving on Csevet’s neck and ear. “Cala, will you-?” he breaks the sentence off, aborting his gesture in turn, but Cala can interpret it easily.

“As you wish, Serenity,” he replies, and then he is kneeling, clever sharp fingers working at the ties on Csevet’s trousers. Every brush against Csevet’s hard length is agonizing, even though the fabric; he is starved for their touch as surely as they hunger for him. For _him_.

He nearly breaks character with Cala’s mouth around him; his instinct says to lay back, to lazily enjoy this hedonism and reciprocate afterwards, but he is sure that Edrehasivar- that _Maia_ would not. His fingers flutter in the hair lying loose on Cala’s forehead. He brushes it back- tenderly, somewhat ineffectually- with shaking fingers, then pulls his hand back. Maia would not be sure where to put it.

He swoons a little against Beshelar’s strong frame, and this is not a calculated gesture to trigger the nohecharei’s possessive protectiveness, but only his own need after so many months devoted solely to the fuctioning of Empire and Emperor. How many nights has he staggered back to bed after gruelling twenty-hour days or gone without sleep entirely? He flatters himself that His Serenity would never notice it, for Csevet’s poise and immaculate grooming run deep in his soul, but _he_ feels it, he feels the strain of the long hours. He does not resent it, though. He would do this and more for Edrehasivar. For Maia. He would do anything for him.

Beshelar is peeling back and discarding the shirt and jacket Cala had undone, in that effortless accommodating teamwork they seem to have perfected. His hands are warm and wonderful on Csevet’s bare back and chest, lingering worshipfully on his slim hips. His mouth is even better, though, his kisses hot and open with desire. Cala frees his mouth from Csevet’s cock, and his smile is wide and wet as he looks up at them. There is some wordless nohecharei agreement between them; Csevet finds their long training and practice to translate excellently from security to lovemaking. His lord _should_ have the chance to use them this way. They are so proficient.

They move him easily, as if Csevet’s weight and will are negligible. Swiftly and easily, Beshelar has his trousers down and is seated in the armchair- he looks flushed and a little outraged at his own impropriety, actually- and Csevet is seated on his lap. The man’s thick cock nestles between his buttocks and Csevet arches, entirely involuntarily. It has been too long since he was able to enjoy himself properly with no considerations; knowing these men intend to use him fully, to wring every drop of pleasure from him… the idea nearly undoes him. Thankfully, his whimper or gasp is in character, or close enough to count.

Beshelar spreads Csevet’s legs, hands scooping behind Csevet’s knees and pulling them back towards him. Csevet is frankly amazed that the man isn’t rutting against his ass already; Beshelar is evidently far more skilled at controlling his body than he is his words. Csevet reaches a hand back, caressing the shorn hair at the base of the lieutenant’s head, and Beshelar groans into Csevet’s ear.

But then Cala moves, and Csevet has no more focus for such details. The maza’s long fingers wrap around Csevet’s cock again, but he cranes his head in, licking and mouthing at Csevet’s hole. He would writhe in the sudden shock of pleasure, but Beshelar has too good a hold on him, so he is left twitching and whimpering from Cala’s attentions, powerless.

Soon Cala fumbles in his robes, pulling a little flask from his pocket, and opens it to slather his fingers in a slick oil. Csevet catches a heady smell to it- pine? perfume? as Cala applies it to him, those thin fingers deft and searching. One screws up and into him, slow but unrelenting. His head ducks to Csevet’s cock again, mouth plunging over it once more, and Csevet begins to feel the wash of pleasure coursing in his veins. It pulses with his heartbeat, it flushes him with heat.

“Are you ready, Cse- Serenity?” asks Beshelar, soft in Csevet’s ear. 

He can hear the near-use of his name; they have almost dropped the pretense between them, and Csevet is not sure to keep it or discard it himself. So much of him is stripped away, transformed into desire and desperation and pleasure, that he has only enough left to beg. “Please, gods, yes,” he breathes, and both of them give low moans in response to his hunger.

They pull him up, they arrange him, and Csevet just tries to keep his hands out of the way. He has done this before, he reminds himself, but it has never been with a team so efficient, so utterly familiar with each other’s motions, so totally content to please him. Perhaps some vestige of his shy, sweet lord is still invested in Csevet’s mind and mannerisms; he gasps when he is slowly lowered onto Beshelar’s thick shaft, throwing his head back and whining.

It takes an uncounted number of devastatingly long minutes before he is seated fully. Cala watches from where he kneels, mouth open, palming his own stand through his robes. He sheds a layer, swiftly and careless, and pushes his leggings down around his knees, taking cock in hand while Csevet slowly comes to terms with Beshelar’s girth. Watching a man pleasure himself at the sight of him is not something Csevet will ever tire of, and he watches Cala’s delicate hand move on his shaft with all the enjoyment he can muster. Finally- _finally_ \- he takes Beshelar to the hilt, feeling the soldier groan into his shoulder.

Cala edges forward, sinking his mouth over Csevet’s cock again. It is so overwhelming, such intense pleasure after so long without, that it takes all the control he has left to his name not to finish immediately. He keens, though, a high and trembling sound, as Beshelar starts to move inside him and Cala’s mouth moves over him.

It does not take so long for him to succumb again, in the rhythm the nohecharei unthinkingly obey; he spasms, drawing another deep sound from Beshelar, and then his mind is ripped from him entirely. He comes with the soldier fucking him deep, his cock spurting into the maza’s throat.

He can feel, through the haze, how they continue to use him, he feels Beshelar pounding him with increasing speed, Cala kissing his thighs and stomach, until they finish, still in uncanny unison. Cala chokes a cry out and Beshelar mutters, “Serenity-” into Csevet’s back as he comes. They cling to him afterwards, Beshelar pressed into his back and Cala’s head resting on his knee.

There is the usual gradual reawakening, the slow and sticky extracting, untangling limbs from Beshelar’s and trying not to trip over Cala and the the rug before the fire they have disturbed. There is the usual scramble to clean up, scrubbing seed from clothes and carpet and themselves. Csevet spares a moment’s regret for the poor cleaning staff, but the room is passable and even Csevet feels, adjusting his tashin sticks in the wall mirror, that he won’t look too much a disgrace on his way back to his rooms.

Then there is the awkward silence after. The nohecharei close ranks once they are clothed, finding security in each other, and Csevet returns to his desk and the abandoned trade agreements and merchant contracts. They are all suddenly shy, but the nohecharei still approach him.

“We hope that was acceptable, Mer Aisava,” Beshelar says, trying not to mutter. “-Csevet,” he amends. He is flushed, as much with embarrassment as spent exertion.

“Yes, our thanks,” Cala says, easily picking up where his counterpart left off. “We would be very happy to continue in this manner, if you don’t mind. If you are interested.”

Csevet studies his paperwork, a calculated gesture to make them wait and stew. In truth, he does not have to think long. Finally he raises his head, faintly smiling. “We would be most pleased…” he tells them, and they give him short bows of gratitude and make their way out.

“…Our First,” Csevet tacks on, once their backs are turned, and has the joy of watching the ripple of reaction pass through them in tandem, before he turns back to his paperwork.


End file.
